Safe
by MinP1072
Summary: This one is from a prompt from a friend on the FB Lizzington group: Post-Season 2, Red and Liz are stranded in an underground safe house. There's no way to avoid dealing with each other now. I may take some liberties, like I do.
1. Chapter 1

They drive for hours that seem endless — it must actually be days — passing in a blur of half-sleep, isolated gas stations, pit stops by the side of the road. They've changed cars at least twice that she can remember, but she's so hazy now that it might have been more. The only constants have become her dreamy state of horror and sadness, and the warmth of his body, solid against her as they slide smoothly along unknown roads.

It's pitch black and deathly quiet as they stop again and he urges her out of the car. She stands still while he speaks briefly to their driver, letting her eyes adjust to the dark; lets him take her arm to guide her steps as the car turns around and drives away. There's no other car — she guesses they're walking from here.

She shivers a little as they walk — it's cold, but it wakes her up a bit, and she starts to take in their surroundings. They're not on the side of the road; their car drove off it to let them out… in the desert.

"Reddington?" she says, hesitant, "Where are we?"

"North end of Death Valley," he answers cheerfully. "Come on, Lizzie, we've got to get undercover quickly."

They are approaching a chain link fence, covered in "No Entry" and "Hazard" signs. She wonders if they'll need to climb it, then decides that her imagination can't stretch to Reddington boosting himself over a fence. Thankfully, there's a gate.

He digs around in his case and pulls out a key, unlocks and opens the gate. Once they're through, he does a little fancy handwork to refasten the lock on the outside. She lets herself take a minute to admire his dexterous fingers, then shakes it off.

A little more walking, and the shape of a large, single story building with a peaked roof becomes visible a short distance away; in front of it is a smaller, more oblong shape. It's the smaller shape they are heading for — she can't make out any details, can't be sure what type of building it is. He slides open a door in the side — this one isn't locked, she notes absently — and waves her inside. It's even darker in the small building, though, and she hesitates.

"Come on, Lizzie," he coaxes. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I think I've had my fill of adventure for a while," she murmurs back, and fishes a penlight out of her jacket.

"Wait until I shut the door again," he says quickly, "Then aim it at the floor."

She appreciates his caution, even though it keeps her on edge. When she hears the heavy metal door clunk into place, she twists on her light. They are in a narrow, long room that seems to basically be a metal box — it's empty. She sweeps the narrow beam along the floor; stops when she gets a reflection off a smooth patch in the long stretch of corrugated iron.

"Aha!" he cries. "Well done, Lizzie, and on the first try, too!"

He crouches down and presses his palm flat on the smooth metal; a section of the floor slides smoothly away. She moves the light a little to see a stairway leading downward into the earth.

"You've got to be kidding me," she says faintly.

"Not claustrophobic, are you?" he asks, ushering her forward. "No, I'd know if you were."

She rolls her eyes, glad he's behind her and can't see her face. _Honestly_ , she thinks, _is there no end to his arrogance?_

They make their way carefully down a lengthy flight of stairs to a smooth-walled hallway with a steel door at its end. When they reach the door, he enters a numeric code that she doesn't quite catch into a keypad on the right, opens the door, and sweeps an arm in invitation.

"In you go, sweetheart," he says. "I'll get the lights."

* * *

She takes a few steps past the door; blinks as warm light fills the room she finds herself in. It looks like a living room — midsize, with a comfortable-looking couch and a couple of plush chairs, a low table, a few healthy-seeming plants. The unusual aspect is that the room is circular, and seems to be a kind of hub for a number of rooms spaced around the outer wall — there are eight, she counts them automatically. The biggest, completely open, is a kitchen, she assumes a couple of bedrooms, a bathroom, then she's not so sure.

"Reddington," she says slowly, turning back to him. "Is this… some kind of survival shelter? Like… a bunker?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Well," he says, a touch disapproving, "We are clearly underground, with survival as our main aim. I object strenuously to 'shelter' and 'bunker', though. This is a fully-equipped safe house; all the comforts of home."

She laughs, and it's tinged with hysteria. "An underground bunk… sorry, safe house. Have you been prepping for TEOTWAWKI, Red? Is there a still down here somewhere?"

"I am sure I don't know _what_ you mean," he replies, all offended dignity. "I had this designed specifically, and built a couple of years ago, shortly before I turned myself in. For… emergencies. Which, I think it's safe to say, this is."

"So, what… we're going to hide out underground?! For how long?" She can hear herself growing shrill, waspish, and hates it. But she's filthy, hungry, and exhausted — they've been traveling for days, and everything is smeared with a surreal quality that makes her even more disorientated. She hates feeling helpless.

"At this moment," he answers stiffly — and she can tell he's angry now, "I can think of a number of ways to answer you. However, since I know that you must feel as wretched as I do, I'll stick with covering the basic facts.

"Yes, we're going to spend some time here — a few weeks at least, probably more like a month. Since the FBI has the tail numbers and details of my plane, it's not safe to leave the country right now. Staying quiet and hidden will throw off pursuit and protect us both from the Cabal while we make plans. I assure you we will be quite comfortable here. Bedrooms and the bathroom are to the left there, past the kitchen — yours is the far bedroom; you'll find clothing and toiletries there. I'm going to suggest that we both try to get some sleep now, and discuss our situation further in the morning."

He hesitates, then squeezes her hand gently. "Don't be afraid, Lizzie," he says softly. "I've got you." And he disappears into the first bedroom and shuts the door.

She takes a couple of steps after him, then stops, heaves a gusty sigh. _Okay_ , she thinks, _Okay. Sleep first_. She knows that she needs the time to settle, regroup — from her discoveries about her parents and about Reddington, from Tom, from the shooting. She uses the bathroom quickly, then heads for the room he called hers; sits down on the bed to take off her boots.

Then there's nothing else until morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This feels like a lot of chapter for not very much action - just felt like I needed to set the stage for them a little, and that we needed some more exposition about their situation. Sorry if I missed the mark too much!**

* * *

The sound of knocking wakes her, startled and disoriented. She shoves herself upright, feeling truly awful — she's slept hard, but is still in her clothes, which are wrinkled, filthy, and sticking to her; her eyes are gritty, and her body aches.

"I'm awake," she groans, padding to the door. She opens it to see him standing there, clean and fresh, in a button-down and slacks. She thinks she might like to punch him, just to relieve her feelings. He takes in the look on her face, and steps back instead of entering the room.

"The shower," he says, "Is all yours. I'll just put together some breakfast while you're in there. Everything you need should be on top of the dresser over there."

She turns to look, and sees a towel and washcloth; shampoo and conditioner, body wash and lotion, all in brands and types she favours. Feeling a little guilty, she turns back to thank him, but he's already retreated.

Sighing she goes to the dresser, opens drawers to find stacks of soft tees, leggings and yoga pants, fuzzy soft socks, sports bras and underwear. She shakes her head, but is too glad at the prospect of clean clothes to worry overmuch about how they got there, or when. Collecting everything she wants in a full armload, she ducks into the bathroom.

The shower stall isn't overly generous, but the water is hot, and the pressure still better than her crappy motel room. She thinks she should probably limit the amount of water she uses, considering, but it feels so damn good that she can't help but take her time. She leaves her hair to air dry to compensate, pulling on the soft new clothes that fit like they were made for her.

Opening the door, she follows the smell of food to the kitchen. He has his back to the door, stirring a pot on the stove — she notices that his feet are bare, and altogether, it makes a picture so incongruous with the Concierge of Crime that she laughs out loud.

* * *

He hears her coming across to the kitchen, but doesn't turn around, enjoying the last moments of the quiet domesticity he'd felt, listening to the shower run as he moved around the cozy kitchen. Then he hears her laugh, and his mouth twitches a little in response. He faces her, leaning against the counter beside the stove, and smiles at her.

"Something funny, Lizzie?" he asks, although he knows perfectly well why she's laughing.

"Sorry," she says, markedly more cheerful now that she's clean as well as rested. "I have just never pictured you cooking." She sniffs the air curiously. "Is that oatmeal?"

"Yes," he replies, "It is. A good breakfast is key to a successful day. And as for cooking, any creature that needs to eat should be able to provide itself with food."

She shrugs at him. "You can eat without cooking."

"I prefer to enjoy a well-put-together meal than to merely scrape by on the basics. And our takeout options are rather limited, at the moment."

She laughs again; she's almost forgotten that he can be funny. "It smells good," she offers, "Homey… Thank you."

She's not sure how to act now, now that the careful boundaries of their relationship have shifted and changed. In a way, they are closer to true partners than ever, but she no longer has any advantage, has lost even the pretense of control. It makes her uneasy, but she _is_ grateful to him, she _wants_ to get along. She just has to stay off the defensive, and hopes it won't be too hard.

He turns back to the stove. "You're welcome. There's coffee there," he gestures to a French press on the counter kitty corner to the stove. "Only creamer, though — no fresh dairy down here."

"Black's fine," she says, moving to pour herself a mugful. "Speaking of… do you want to tell me a little more about this place?"

"We can go through everything after breakfast," he answers, spooning oatmeal into bowls. "Raisins?"

"Um… sure," she says, uneasy again, bothered by the nagging feeling that this is all just an extremely bizarre dream.

"There's apples, too," he offers, bringing the bowls to the small, round table in the corner of the room and sitting down.

"No, thanks," she says, sitting across from him. "Maybe later… Okay, Reddington, this is just weird."

He cocks an eyebrow at her. "What's weird about breakfast? Aren't you hungry?"

"Of course," she answers impatiently. "But this… you, me, us, just sitting here, like… oh, I don't know!"

He sighs. "Lizzie, we're living here together for the foreseeable future. It may be a new situation for us, but there's no reason not to carry on as human beings. We have to eat — I simply thought it nicer to do it together."

She frowns a little — has she… hurt his feelings? _Ridiculous_ , she thinks.

And yet… "It is," she finds herself saying. "Nicer, I mean. Thank you for taking the trouble to make things so comfortable. I guess I'm just not used to spending time with you that isn't…"

"Fraught with danger, violence, or terrible arguments?" he finishes, the humour back in his voice.

"Yeah," she says. "That's… pretty silly, really."

"Maybe," he answers, "But understandable." He looks sadder again, or maybe just resigned. "Eat up, Lizzie, before it gets cold."

* * *

In the spirit of cooperative living, she washes the dishes before demanding information again. He drinks coffee and watches her, wondering how she'll react to the situation, wondering how they'll manage together — will the tension finally break, and allow for real bonds to form, or will she fight harder, pull away, run from him even now… he can't read her well enough to be sure one way or the other.

"So," she says when she's finished, drying her hands and sitting back down. "Fill me in, Reddington."

"Can I ask you something, first? We're living together, counting on each other, it seems… could you stop calling me by just my last name? I'm not your asset, anymore."

She looks into his face, and wonders why she's been bothering to try and maintain the artificial distance between them.

"Sure," she says, "You're right… Red."

He smiles — it's a start, at least.

"So, I was a bit out of it last night. We're in 'Death Valley'? Which doesn't sound like a great place, by the way."

"Well, we're under it, anyway. Nevada desert," he answers. "At the north-east end of Death Valley National Park, there's an old mining town called Rhyolite. Built and abandoned in the early twentieth century. Much of it is government owned now, but some of the buildings are still in private hands. Including the railway station, which you saw last night, and which I managed to… acquire, some years ago. The surface entrance to this safe house is inside a grounded train car behind the station."

"We're hiding out in a _tourist attraction_?! Are you serious?"

"The station isn't," he reaffirms, trying to stay patient. "I said, it's privately owned — by me — and as such, is not open to the public. It's completely fenced off. The presence of other people in the area on a regular basis, however, makes a handy blind if we need anything dropped from outside. Much better than a place that no one ever goes."

She takes a breath and thinks about it. "Okay," she says. "I see your point. It's sort of… surreal being underground."

"This home is perfectly pleasant," he says, a little stiffly. "Let me show you."

Stepping to the kitchen door, he points around the circle of the main living area. "The kitchen, my bedroom, the bathroom, your room — you know all these now."

She nods, eyeing him cautiously. "I should say, thank you for the clothes and things. I didn't know that you… knew so much about me." She aims for diplomacy; thinks she's done okay.

He smiles. "It's my job to take care of you," he says simply. "Moving on, that closed door next to your room is a weapons room — more of a closet, really. Next to that is a small workout space — treadmill, weights, heavy bag in the corner — then an entertainment room, books, videos, that kind of thing. Beside that's storage — mostly food, emergency water, flashlights and tools — you know, supplies. There's also a small garden in there — herbs, a few microgreens. Compost. Then the entrance there, and we're back."

She looks at him, flummoxed. "Microgreens?" is the first question that comes out.

"No one should go for weeks entirely without fresh food, Lizzie. Besides, the grow lights are nice if you start to get desperate for sunlight. There's a grey water pump in the kitchen for watering."

"Okay," she says, thinking that he sure never does anything by halves. "Where does the power come from?"

"Oh, it's cutting edge!" he says, gleeful as a boy. "Underground solar power! Groups of fiber optic cables, coated in zinc oxide, run the sunlight down to a converter, and boom! Power!"

"Really?" she says, interested. "That's pretty amazing. Won't people see the cables, though?"

""They're all on the back side of the rail car, so blocked by it and by the station building, and they're close to the ground, too. Chances are pretty slim."

"Air filtration?" she asks, "The air seems pretty fresh in here."

"Of course," he answers, "There's a purifier, too, for the plants. We've got an Ethernet connection looped in from the ranger station in the Park, but we have to be sparing with it to avoid any noticeable activity. All the equipment, including backup batteries and water tanks, are outside the house — there's an access corridor all the way around for maintenance. You can get into it from the entrance hall. Oh, and there's an emergency tunnel out into the Park at the back of the armory — next to your room. Don't forget."

"I'd say, as always, you've thought of everything," she says. "I'm a little overwhelmed."

"Safety first, Lizzie," he says with a grin. "But comfort right after that."


	3. Chapter 3

It actually takes longer than he expected for the atmosphere to start to turn.

The first day is quiet — despite each getting a decent sleep, they are both still exhausted, physically and emotionally, wrung out both from their journey and the events leading up to it. She curls up with a book; spends most of the day reading and napping. He spends some time checking on the house, making sure everything is running as it should and that they have everything they might need — particularly in the weapons store. Then, he lets himself relax a little — he has one last newspaper crossword he can do.

They come to an agreement that he will do most of the cooking; she is happy to do dishes, and spend time in the garden, tending to their small stock of plants. They both pass a quiet night as well — he actually sleeps for a few hours, secure in the knowledge that, for once, they are both utterly safe.

By the next afternoon, she starts to get restless. Honestly, after two years in the underground labyrinth of the Post Office, he'd thought, hoped, that she'd be more used to being closed in. But of course, even then, she could go out whenever she wanted, more or less. It's easy to chalk it up to circumstance — she's had a lot going on, after all — the sudden standstill is bound to be as much a shock to the system as it is a relief.

He tries to set a tone of relative ease, reading or thinking up some of his better stories to tell her, suggests a video, or cards. For the time being, it seems that she would rather pace.

And he waits for it to start.

* * *

Mid-afternoon, she sits down across from him in the great room.

"I can't bottle it up anymore, Red," she blurts. "I'm going crazy in here, in my mind. Talk to me — help me. Who were my parents, really? What was going on that night? Why were you there? What…"

"Lizzie," he interrupts, regret heavy in his voice, in the lines on his face. "I can't tell you these things, it's not…"

"You mean you _won't_!" she battles back. " _Why?_ I'm a criminal now — we're hiding from the law together, for God's sake! What reason could you possibly have for keeping all these secrets?"

"Oh, Lizzie," he says, and sits up straighter to look her directly in the eye. "Why don't _you_ tell _me_ about Tom Connolly? Why did you do it, Lizzie? You didn't just shoot an unarmed man, your threw your entire life away. So, what happened?"

She looks down at her hands, back up to his face, but she can't meet his eyes. "I don't want to talk about that," she mutters.

"Well, then, sweetheart, it looks like we're at an impasse," he drawls, and lifts his book ostentatiously.

She lets out a huff of air, then goes back to pacing, then wandering from room to room, seething with dissatisfaction.

* * *

For the next few days, she campaigns against him, waiting until she thinks his guard is down before hurling questions at him like arrows.

"Who were my parents?"

"How did you meet Sam?"

"How did the fire start?"

"Who created the Fulcrum?"

Always, always, he avoids, sidesteps (he's not ready, she's not ready), returning question for question.

"Why did you shoot Connolly?"

"What happened with Cooper?"

"Why (why, Lizzie, why) did you turn to Tom Keen for help?"

"Why did you come to me, in the end?"

She doesn't want to answer his questions any more than he does hers, and so they are left in a tense, angry détente, neither willing to be the first to give. He watches her struggle with herself — her reaction to his silence has always been rage; hateful words and disdain. She doesn't want to fight with him now, though, so she fights to temper her reactions instead, to keep things, if not friendly, then at least peaceable. And he's thankful, because he couldn't stand arguing day in and out — the ambush of questions is draining enough.

* * *

Then, on the fourth day, she changes tactics. He can almost see her brain working, when she thinks he's not paying attention.

She's spent some of her time… "getting to know him," she calls it; "grubbing through his things," he calls it. He lets it go, though — since he's purchased everything she currently owns, right down to her underwear, he figures it would be hypocritical to quibble about her going through his books and music.

Then, in between question periods, she starts to tease him, bait him — he thinks she is trying to disarm him.

"I admire your dress sense, Red, but who are you dressing for, down here? Don't you have any t-shirts? Have you ever," with a mischievous grin, "Even owned a pair of sweatpants?"

"Classic literature is all well and good, Red, but don't you ever just want a good potboiler?"

"Judy Garland and Katherine Hepburn? Did you get your taste in film from your grandma?"

"Don't you have any music composed after 1960? You' re _fifty_ -five, Red, not _eighty_!"

And so it goes, until he thinks he would cheerfully strangle her, if poking at him didn't seem to give her a measure of happiness.

 _Nonetheless_ , he thinks wryly, _trapped together for the foreseeable future, this is going to get old fast._


	4. Chapter 4

_Breathe in_ , he tells himself, _breathe out. She_ wants _you to react, just like always…_

"Red? Did you want me to make you a cup of cocoa before bed?"

Her face is serious enough, but her eyes, oh, her eyes, are alive and sparkling with mischief. He loves to see it, to see her filling back up with life, even as his ire responds to her teasing.

"No, thank you, Lizzie," he replies drily. "But have a good sleep." And watches her disappear into her bedroom, thinking furiously. _Wait a minute, here — she's calling me OLD! That little… Well, I believe I can do something about that…"_

* * *

She lies in bed, torn between anger and amusement. He has steadily refused to answer any of her questions — _despite everything, he's still treating me like a child_. But on the other hand, he has just as steadily taken her campaign of teasing harassment with friendly equanimity. Oh, he answers back as often as not, but always good-naturedly, and hasn't once raised his voice (now she wishes that she could claim the same). Red being Red, though, he often includes a taunting sexuality that she's not sure what to do with.

"Don't disdain the classics, Lizzie. But if you must, I think Kate might have a left a Nora Roberts in the bathroom — she's got a weakness. Check behind the toilet."

"I've got nothing against modern music, but I just can't dance to it. Maybe you'd like to teach me?"

"Sweatpants, Lizzie? Not even while hospitalized, I assure you. Now, when _I_ fantasize about _you_ , I prefer to dress you a little more elegantly… or not at all."

Always with that gentlemanly little smirk and a raised eyebrow, like he's thinking something other than what he's saying. She's got to admit, no matter how frustrated she is with her lack of results; she admires his ability to always have an clever answer ready.

She punches at her pillow; rolls over for the tenth, maybe eleventh time. Tomorrow, she thinks, she is going to need a new tactic.

* * *

She's been setting her alarm — otherwise, she finds it difficult to tell when it's really morning. Regardless, she never seems to be able to get up before him, but always emerges from her room to the aroma of coffee and the sound of Red in the kitchen, making them breakfast. Sometimes, she thinks, padding to the bathroom, yawning, he makes it very difficult to be angry at him.

She decides to wait to shower until after she eats — there's no point worrying about modesty in particular, and the sleep shorts she's wearing aren't particularly short. She does wonder if he did the clothes shopping himself, or if one of his many minions did it for him. After she eats, she'll decide on the next move in her campaign against Mr. Inscrutable.

But when she hits the door to the kitchen, she stops and… just stops.

As has become usual, he's already at the stove, humming vaguely while he putters. But, _un_ usually, he's _not_ wearing his neatly pressed slacks and button-down. Today, today he's wearing a fitted dark grey t-shirt (and his arms are more muscled than she would have guessed) and an _extremely_ well-fitting pair of jeans, once-dark but worn in all the right places, fraying at the pockets and cuffs, and… and his feet are bare, and he's… _hot_ , just look at that a…

 _Wait, what?_ She catches herself, _Wait, am I checking out Reddington's_ ass?!

She feels her cheeks redden in mortification. _At least he doesn't know I'm looking…_

"Good morning, Lizzie," his cheerful voice steals the rest of her dignity with three little words. "Something wrong?"

"No," she says immediately, and then wants to just disappear when it comes out all hoarse and croaky. "Just… didn't sleep that well." She goes to pour herself coffee, so she doesn't have to face him.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he says, and she can tell he's smiling. "Something to eat should help perk you up."

When she thinks she can turn around without making a complete idiot of herself, he's already sitting at the table, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, the picture of relaxed comfort.

 _He's even trimmed his hair… And how did I notice_ that _?_

Just how closely, she wonders, has she been watching him without realizing it?

She further notes, sitting down hastily, that his jeans (jeans!) leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Eat up," he says brightly. "If you're up to it, I thought we could try a little hand-to-hand later — we need to keep active and keep those skills sharp."

She chokes on her swallow of coffee. "You want to… to _spar_ with me? Seriously?" Maybe she's losing her mind down here. Or maybe she's just dreaming…

"Why not?" he asks. "You might be a tad younger than me, but I'm certainly stronger. And we both know that the FBI training's for shit, anyway."

 _Well_ , she thinks, all too willing to channel her… embarrassment into being pissed off, instead. _If that's the way he wants to play it._

"You're on," she says fiercely. But he notices with smug satisfaction that she still can't meet his eyes.

* * *

He suggests giving it an hour or so, to let breakfast settle. She flees as soon as she decently can and spends the time in her room, trying to figure exactly where and when she went wrong.

And trying (unsuccessfully) to stop thinking about those jeans.

When she enters the exercise room, in a support tank and fitness capris that she dug out of a drawer (and he's just maddeningly prepared for absolutely everything), he's already in there, stretching on the floor. She thinks he's wearing the same shirt, but he's changed into a pair of loose cotton pants that, somehow, how she can't explain, are even worse than the jeans.

She gives herself a stern mental shake. _You_ , she tells herself, _are being ridiculous_.

"Ready?" she says, _b_ _ecause I sure am_.

He gives her a wicked grin, and hops to his feet. "Let's go, sweetheart."

He's moved the treadmill to one side and put mats down. She thinks he might, after all, be stronger than her — _But_ , she thinks, _I've_ got _to be quicker_.

They face each other, shifting their weight, eyeing one another. She feints, then takes a quick jab, testing, which he blocks, lightning fast, with apparent ease.

 _Huh. Okay, he's quick, too._

She starts to move, a tiny bit more wary now, and they circle each other carefully. He is still grinning at her, even though she knows, _knows_ , he's just doing it to piss her off, distract her, she can't help it — she's pissed off.

She goes in fast and lands a hit to his solar plexus; whips her leg around for a kick. He catches her leg, again with apparent ease ( _dammit_ ), yanks hard, and she goes down. She rolls, gets back on her feet.

"Pretty spry, Red," she teases. _Keep it light, Liz_.

He laughs. "I told you, Lizzie —FBI training is for shit." Then he punches her in the ribs, not that hard, but still leaving her gasping.

"Cheap shot," she manages.

"Criminals," he says, with appalling cheer, "Rarely follow polite rules." And he brings his leg around, hooks a foot around her ankle and yanks.

She's going down again ( _DAMMIT_ ), but she manages to grab the hem of his t-shirt, and he's coming down with her ( _HA!_ ) — unfortunately, he lands right on top of her.

The breath whooshes out of her; she reflexively tries to bring up a knee. Before she can much more than twitch, he pins both her legs down with one of his, grabs her wrists in his hands and flattens them to the floor on either side of her head.

Most of his body is flush against hers — he's firm with muscle, much more than she expected, and she realizes, shocked, that she can feel him hard against her hip. His face is just millimetres from her own, his breath hot and surprisingly sweet, his eyes looking, laughing, into her own.

"Gotcha!" he says, and he sounds happier than she's ever heard him, than she thought he was capable of being. "That was fun — but I can see we've got a lot of work to do. Same time tomorrow?"

And before she can say a word, he drops his head and touches her lips in a quick, hard kiss before levering himself up and sauntering out of the room. She is left flat on the floor, gasping, with a belly full of heat and her head swimming.

 _What_ , she thinks, lost in confusion, _what the actual fuck just happened?_


	5. Chapter 5

He strolls out of the exercise room, leaving her behind. He puts an inordinate amount of effort into maintaining his customary insouciance until he's out of her sightline. And he makes it, without rushing, somehow — makes it to the washroom and locks himself in.

Then, only then, he lets out all his breath and falls against the door, closing his eyes, and focusing on regulating his heartbeat. He's been having such fun this morning, knocking her off kilter, pushing her buttons, defying her expectations. So much fun that he let his guard down, which is a mistake that he _cannot_ afford.

Sparring with her had been… incandescent. She has a lot to learn, which he expected, but… the fluid strength of her limbs, the fierce concentration on her face, the way the thoughts flicker behind her eyes as she plans and moves. He couldn't help his reaction; he was honestly helpless. Beyond the close contact, the lines of her body reaching, her flushed face — when she pulled him down with her, to her, it felt, for a moment, entirely too real.

Kissing her, though sweet and satisfying in a number of ways, was probably a mistake. But maybe, hopefully, not irretrievable. _She'll be even more unbalanced than before — just take advantage,_ he tells himself coolly. _Take the high road — she hates that._

But first, and absolutely necessarily, a shower. A cold, cold shower.

* * *

 _Okay, Liz,_ she says to herself, _up you get, and then we'll find out just what kind of game he thinks he's playing here_. She hops to her feet, and hears the shower come on across the great room. Given a slight reprieve, she takes the time to stretch out her arms and legs — it hadn't been a long session, but it was an intense one, Red proving even harder to predict than she would have guessed.

But she can't settle, cool off, her limbs are shaky and feel odd, there's a burning heat inside her and her mind won't quiet. What did he think he was doing, anyway? As if it's not bad enough that he beat her so fast, as if she's never fought before, never spent a single day in the field. He has to try and wind her up, too? Tease and toy and act like he sees her as more than a responsibility? Like he wants something…

 _That's not the point_ , she reminds herself firmly. _Not in the least_. He was wrong, wrong and he needs to know it. Working up a good, healthy mad isn't difficult — in fact, it's a welcome relief from the confused, embarrassed tumble her thoughts have become. And it's much easier to pretend that the heat inside her is caused by anger than… anything else.

She takes off to her room to change, and to plan for their next confrontation.

* * *

When she comes back out into the main room, he's already there, in a clean t-shirt and the Abominable Jeans, stretched out on the couch reading. His feet are still bare. Why isn't he at least wearing socks? And why is she paying so much attention to his feet? On the plus side, now she's even angrier.

He looks up as she stalks over to him, and has the _nerve_ to smile at her.

"What the hell, Red?!" she lays right in, intent on staying as angry as she can. "Just what do you think…"

"Oh, Lizzie," he interrupts. (Are his eyes actually twinkling? She thinks she might be losing ground. And sanity.) "Are you _this_ angry just because I kissed you? I couldn't help it, sweetheart — there you were, all flushed and mussed up like an angry kitten. You were so adorably annoyed, it was either kiss you or pinch your cheeks… I thought I'd made the better choice."

She wants to retort, needs to, if she's going to get anywhere here, but she _can't_. Is choking on horror and embarrassment and… no, NOT disappointment, anger. Anger is safe and good and she's right, she's in the right…

He grins at her, when she can't answer, _winks_ , and picks up his book again.

"You don't mind, do you, Lizzie? I'm just getting to the best part."

And he buries himself in the pages ( _I've won this round, too_ , he thinks smugly), leaving her gaping again, the wind taken out of her sails, wondering just how she got so completely off course and how she'll ever recoup this time.

* * *

She swallows her anger, the flush that can't possibly be regret, and goes into the other room — maybe she'll just find a book herself, and tune out for an hour. Nothing appeals to her, though, or maybe it's the way her insides still won't settle down.

She ends up in the storage area, tending to their small collection of plants — her garden, as she's come to think of it. She's never even thought about gardening before, has never had the time or inclination. But this small corner has fast become her favourite spot, solitary and peaceful. And it feels good to contribute something, no matter how small, to their existence here.

It doesn't take long now for her thoughts to begin to settle, for her to become somewhat calmer, more rational. She thinks she can begin to reevaluate her position in this game they seem to be playing — whether they are redefining the boundaries of their relationship, or just seeing who can annoy the other the most.

It's so like him to turn the tables so completely, she thinks ruefully. If her questions and her teasing comments have been bothering him, of course he can't just give back or tell her to shut up. No, he has to up the competition, to dominate the game. And she knows she just makes it easy for him — he can count on the way her emotions always get the better of her.

 _So_ , she thinks, _the best way to stay ahead is to_ stay calm _— remember he is trying to rouse you, to get a reaction, all you have to do is_ not _react_.

Red probably does have a lot he can teach her — about this kind of life, about strength of all kinds and defending herself, about outsmarting an enemy without losing yourself in it. After working with him for nearly two years, she may finally have to decide what she really wants from him. Does she want truth, or safety? Answers? Or peace? Memories? Or Reddington? Red is… a conundrum that will take much more than a quiet hour with the plants to solve. It may be that she will have to put aside her need for answers to her past in order to gain the keys to her future.

And really, if he wants to try and distract her from their many problems by showing her how good he can look in a pair of jeans, is that really so bad?

* * *

 **A/N: I've tried, but I'm giving in to my mind — next time, we're switching to M, because there's a scene lurking that I don't think I can do without, and it contains smut. Some. So, you know, if you want to keep up, follow, or adjust your filters. And thanks, thanks, thanks for reading!**


	6. Chapter 6

He stares at himself in the mirror. _Not_ so _bad_ , he thinks, _and I think I made my point_. He hadn't missed the way she'd looked at him in the kitchen that morning, and he was sure that she'd felt _something_ besides anger during and after their match. He'd worried a little, after he'd brushed it all off, that he'd taken it too far, that his unplanned kiss had told her too much.

But when she'd emerged from the storage room, she'd been quiet and calm, had spoken to him normally. She'd heated soup for their lunch, eaten with him, been friendly. When they were cleaning up, she'd asked, still quietly, if he felt like he could talk to her about the Cabal.

It seemed reasonable to him — that secret was already out in the open — and it was a relief to give her something after months of refusals. They spent most of the afternoon talking about it — the information on the Fulcrum, what else he has gathered over the years, about Alan Fitch and the Director. He even shared some of his expectations for what might happen next, contingent, of course, on the media storm he has attempted to start. She took copious notes; unearthed a map from somewhere in his library that she marked up with events and people.

When they were talked out, they had an early dinner and played several rounds of companionable gin rummy before she pled exhaustion and went off to bed. He's not sure if she's plotting a new angle of attack, or has just decided that, in their enforced close quarters, friendly is better for them both, but he's pleased. And she didn't poke at him once, all afternoon.

He finishes up in the washroom; goes back to his room to strip out of his clothes and pull on the soft cotton pajama pants he's conceded to wearing, down here. But sleep is elusive, although he's been sleeping better lately, with Lizzie safe and secure in the next room.

He can't get the images of her out of his head. Her long, supple limbs battling his; the furrow of concentration on her forehead as she works over her map; her damp, flushed skin as they grappled together; the look in her eyes when he kissed her, however fleeting; the feel of her, God, the feel of her pinned on the floor underneath him…

He lets out a strangled moan — he's tried not to think of her this way since they came down here, to save his sanity; he hasn't touched himself in days, but he's aching and impossibly hard, and he can't stand it. He pushes his pants back down over his hips; covers his face with one hand as he grasps himself firmly with the other and starts to stroke, wishing.

* * *

She wakes in a cold sweat, fading images of her shadowy father lingering like a cloud over her mind. Looking at the clock by her bed, she sees it's not even midnight — _that's what comes of going to sleep before 9_ , she thinks ruefully.

She turns over, restless and unsettled. She'd been so pleased with herself that afternoon — she thinks her calm and friendly behavior worked on him as intended. He shared a great deal with her, and has again shown himself to be a thoughtful and insightful partner. She enjoys when they can work that way — in tandem, bouncing thoughts off one another, clearing a path through the bewildering mass of information.

She wonders, tossing, why it can't always be that way between them. Is it her, with her volatility and temper and mistrust? Is it him, with his patronizing arrogance and secrecy? Or is it the both of them, so busy battling on one hand and hiding on the other that they are incapable of meeting in the middle?

She lets out a gusty sigh, frustrated. She gets out of bed, unable to lie still any longer. Decides to head to the kitchen for a glass of water.

* * *

As she passes Red's door, she thinks she hears something — a groan? _Maybe he's sick_ , she thinks, _or maybe I'm not the only one with nightmares_. She turns, then hesitates, but she can see his door isn't shut to, so she pushes it open a touch further, just to make sure he's all right.

They're in the habit of leaving the bathroom light on in case one of them needs to get up in the night. Underground, there's no ambient light at all, otherwise. The light is just a dim glow, but her eyes are adjusted and she can see him well enough.

He's lying on his bed, bare-chested, one large hand over his eyes, pants rucked below his hips and… _oh no,_ she thinks, _he's not sick at all…_

She thinks she should be running for her room, red-faced and embarrassed, but… But the sight of him is so compelling, stretched out long on top of his blankets, so all his firm muscle is clearly visible beneath his softer flesh. The tendons in his arm are standing out as he works his cock, long and hard. Instead of embarrassment, she's wondering what colour he is right now, what he feels like in his hand.

He's breathing harshly and the only other sound in the room the slap of his sac against his thighs as he moves his hand. An all-too-familiar heat is uncurling deep inside her, and she thinks that she's been kidding herself all day, since she first saw him that morning, maybe since…

"Lizzie…" she hears him, low and rough.

 _Shit_ , she thinks, closing her eyes, and now, now it comes, the rush of humiliation, caught out, but she can't move, why can't she move? But he doesn't say anything else, for long enough that she dares raise her eyes to look at him again.

He hasn't seen her — his hand is still covering his face, it hasn't moved at all. But his other hand is moving much faster now, and as she stands there, thoughts whirling, he moans again and comes, hard, semen jetting onto his stomach, his back arching a little, legs stiff.

As he stills, breathing hard, she finds herself able to move again. Shaking, she slides silently back, pulling the door back almost shut as she goes.

Water utterly forgotten, she pads silently back to her room and drops onto her bed; lets her breath out and stares at the ceiling blankly. She thought he saw her as a child, someone to teach, to care for, yes, but as a protector, a guide. She never imagined that he saw her as a woman, as desirable, sexual. What surprises her even more is that this thought, along with the picture of him now burned into her brain, doesn't spur anger or disgust, but a thick, answering desire she can finally admit she recognizes.

 _God_ , she thinks, _what am I going to do?_


	7. Chapter 7

She barely sleeps at all, the rest of the night. She is haunted by images of him, his sensuality now made real, rather than just an air he wears like a suit jacket. She wishes… she wishes she could have seen his face when he said her name.

When she does manage to blank her thoughts and drop off, she only dreams of him… of them.

Touches, light as feathers over her skin.

Movements like dancing, perfectly in sync.

Whispers, soft in her ears like the gentlest breeze, Lizzie, sweetheart, yes, now.

Scent, like whiskey and cigars, like cardamom and musk, wafting through her sleeping mind like a memory of home.

Just as the world comes into focus, when she thinks she'll see his face, close to hers, their lips ready, at last, to touch, hot breath mingling…

She wakes, abruptly, breathing hard, flushed and burning. She yearns for something she didn't know she wanted, still isn't sure she wants, something she may not be able to have.

She tosses and turns, sweating, frustrated, and unhappy. She watches the block as the seconds and minutes pass by, waiting for morning, so she can get up and move and shake herself free of this wretched desire she neither needs nor wants.

* * *

When the clock finally ticks over to 5:30, she decides it's late enough to get up and shower. She hasn't heard Red yet — she'll be the first up for the first time since they arrived in this luxury hidey-hole.

She pads to the bathroom, thankful that she doesn't have to pass his door to get there. Water, hot and hard, provides some relief. It streams down her body like a caress. She can picture his large, warm hand… _God_ , she thinks, _what is_ wrong _with me?_

But she can't banish him ( _dammit, Red_ ); it's like a dam has broken inside her, a door been unlocked, like her mind and body both were just waiting for a chance, for a reason to see him this way. So she gives in to it, before she loses her mind and goes straight to the source, in the steamy heat of the shower.

She slides her hands down her body, everything soft and warm and sparkling. She cups a breast in one hand, tugging at an aching nipple; runs down to press into her clit with the other hand, circling. She tips back her head, eyes closed, and lets her sense fill with Red, as they had in her dream.

The touch of the water becomes his hands, stroking; the smell of spice and musk; the image of his chest moving and his hand, strong on his body… what does he taste like, she wonders, salt and scotch, bitter, she thinks, not sweet. She leans against the shower wall, panting a little, pressing harder and moving faster now. Little shocks start to run through her, and then there's the sound of his rumbling burr rasping her name, _this_ , she thinks, _oh, this_ , then tumbles over the edge.

* * *

Dry, dressed, and considerably more relaxed, she is in the kitchen making their coffee when she hears the click of a door and the rush of the shower coming on again. She wonders, waiting for the kettle to boil, if she could make oatmeal, so that he would be the one to come into the room to the warm and homey smells of breakfast. She remembers the gluey mess of her last pot of pasta, and decides against it, sighing.

She sits at the table, nibbling on dried apples while she waits for the coffee to brew, thinking. He'll never come to her; she knows him too well to think that he ever would. She can still see the look on his face, in the back of the car, ordering her not to care for him, his arrogance and self-loathing battling for prominence.

But she _does_ care for him — she just realized that she could never admit, even to herself, how much, how deeply it runs. Since the beginning of their odd couple partnership, she has been drawn to him — she had thought it was the lure of her past that he dangled, just out of reach, but no, no, it was just Red all along. Just Red — his charisma and his three-piece suits; his dry wit and ferocity of spirit; his sharp green eyes and expressive and handsome face.

She has come to know him, not well — no one seems to know him particularly well at all, except perhaps Dembe — but enough to see the good man behind the shield of the bad one. She thinks, ruefully, that all of her biggest lies have been the ones she's been telling herself, that she chose to hide behind her anger when she thought he'd let her down — but in the end, he never really had. (Although she thinks it's fair enough that she has trust issues.)

When put to the test, she has been on his side, has fought for him every time — to defend him, she has killed. She can't even remember them all. At The Factory, the mercenary Yaabari, Connolly… _God, Connolly_ — had even she realized that before this moment? How can he not see it, this man who is so very perceptive?

She knows that he cares for her — all the time he has given her, all his attention and solicitation. Her whole life, she thinks now, he's been watching over her for her entire life. So how can she shake him loose from his self-appointed role in her life?

She thinks that their time together has proven that the direct approach doesn't work — and even if she could get up the nerve to seduce him, it would immediately put him on the defensive. He gave himself away, though, she thinks, with that kiss — she can work with that. Back, then, to making friends on one hand, and poking at him with the other.

Sooner or later, he'll break again.

* * *

She's pouring coffee when she hears him behind her; she turns around with a smile. He smiles back; he's wearing another t-shirt and the loose pants he wore the previous day to work out in.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he says cheerfully. "You're up early today."

"Couldn't sleep," she answers, carefully laconic. "Strange dreams."

He quirks an eyebrow at her, but she just shrugs. Then she smiles again, mischief all over her face. "I was going to cook breakfast," she says, "But I figured we have a limited supply of pots down here."

He laughs, surprised, and comes up beside her to get his own coffee. "I'll take care of it," he says. "Up for a proper workout this morning, Lizzie?"

"I'd like that," she replies, inwardly gleeful. "If you think you can manage it, of course — yesterday's was pretty short. I was worried it was too much for you."

He barks out another laugh — she's back to sass, but he doesn't mind it so much, today. "Oh, I think I can handle it," he twinkles at her. "In fact, I think I'll enjoy it very much." And he moves past her to start on breakfast.

She goes back to the table, smiling inwardly.

 _So it begins_ , she thinks. And she can't wait.


	8. Chapter 8

Later, she walks into the exercise room, flush with the energy of anticipation. Sparring with him, the fight, it's as much as dance as anything else — the coordinated movements, the brush of bodies, touch of hands, tangle of legs. He's waiting for her again, smiling, sitting on the edge of the treadmill close to the floor.

"Now that I know a little better where you're at," he says smoothly, without preamble, "I think it would be more helpful for me to watch you; then we can really achieve progress."

Her stomach drops a little — both disappointment and a rush of nerves — but she can see his point. Normally, an instructor would watch and evaluate pairs, for better accuracy, but since there's only two of them here…

"All right," she says, striving for her usual coolness. "You'll call it for me, then?"

He grins at her and nods in both agreement and invitation.

She centers herself on the mat, shakes her arms a little, takes a breath, then meets his eyes. _They're_ very _green this morning_ , she thinks, distracted, but he's already giving commands. She's a step behind before she even starts to move; he sees it and stops her.

"Pay attention," he says sharply. "It might be practice now, but it won't always be."

She bites back the irritable response that leaps to her mouth and settles for a brusque nod — but she's careful not to make eye contact again.

He starts again — behind you, Lizzie, 6 foot, 200 pounds, knife in his right hand, coming fast…

It isn't long before she's soaked with sweat and has forgotten everything but her next move. Red, surprisingly, is an excellent teacher — demanding but patient, expertly correcting her form when needed, suggesting alternate moves at intervals. Some are completely new to her, and she appreciates the insight into battle without rules.

Eventually, he gets up to show her something; stands behind her to position her arms and nudges at her foot with his own to shift her leg. It all comes flooding back to her, the second his hands touch her arms, as his leg presses against her own. She wonders what he would do if she pressed back against him. She wonders if he's… enjoyed watching her, what she would feel from his body…

"Lizzie!" His exasperated tone breaks through her hazy thoughts. "You're not paying the least bit of attention. Where have you disappeared to?"

 _God,_ she thinks wretchedly, _control yourself_. "I'm sorry, Red," she says lightly, and turns to face him. "I'm flagging a bit — how about a break?"

"All right," he answers, dropping his hands. "You're making some progress already, Lizzie, but your head has to be with you. Your body will eventually respond automatically, but your head can still betray you."

"I know," she says. "I'm just tired today, I think. Thank you for your help." She smiles at him, reaches out to squeeze his hand, then moves past him and out the door, letting her hips sway a little more than they normally might.

He takes a deep breath, watching her walk, thinking wryly that he could use a break himself — if his body went any further on alert, they wouldn't need the solar to light the place anymore. Hoping against hope that she hadn't noticed anything, he adjusts himself with a sigh, and follows after her into the kitchen.

* * *

They sit across from one another in relatively companionable silence, drinking bottles of water. Liz is still dampened from her workout — the wet curls of hair at her temples make him ache to touch her; he thinks that the cluster of droplets gathered at the center of her clavicle is unreasonably sexy. He imagines, briefly, the taste of her — salty with sweat, but clean underneath, with a hint of the citrus that perfumes her soap…

He is lost in thought and seems so far away that she wonders if she has let an opportunity pass by. Maybe she should have just walked back into his room last night and taken her chances. She's quietly admiring the clean line of his profile while trying not to look directly at him when he licks his lips absently. She feels a jolt of lust right through her body and jumps up, needing to move, needing a distraction before she makes a complete ass of herself.

He startles a little as she rises, and clears his throat. "Ready for more, sweetheart?" he says, sounding a little strange.

She raises an eyebrow and smiles. "Maybe it should be _my_ turn to evaluate _your_ form," she teases.

He laughs, more himself as she intended, and shakes his head at her. "It's not me who needs the practice," he points out. "I took you down easily enough."

She scoffs a little; moves to give his shoulder a little nudge with her hip. "All right, then, show-off," she says. "How about you tell me more about your… business? If we're going to be working together from now on, I'm sure there are people, procedures, events I'll need to be familiar with to pass as one of yours."

He considers this briefly, but he's already committed himself to letting her into his world when he met her on that bench. He savours the warm glow that starts inside him at the friendly, teasing tone, at the way she's referred to herself as his, at the way she implies their partnership will be permanent.

"Let's go back to the library, then," he says. "Do you want to change first? We could be a while."

"Okay," she acquiesces easily, "Meet you there in a few."

* * *

In her bedroom, she evaluates quickly. He's going to wear The Jeans again, she just knows it. She _has_ to get her own back on that score, or there'll be no living with him. Her choices, however, are limited, as is her time.

She settles on long black leggings, and instead of her usual loose tunic, pairs them with a small-ish scoop-necked blue tee — not particularly sexy, she thinks, but at least shows off what curves she has left after the misery of the winter.

She'd thought yesterday, last night, even this morning, that she would take some time, find a rapport with him. Make them at ease with each other so that they can be honest. She'd thought that her indulgence in the shower would relieve her thrumming tension enough to allow for the time they need. Enough to allow the back-and-forth verbal thrust and parry that he so loves to connect them together.

All it did was heighten everything, every feeling, all of her most illicit thoughts. Her awareness of him is sharply intensified — the lines of his body under his clothes, the fluid mobility of his face, his hands… she thinks she could write poetry about his hands, strong and deft, long-fingered and supple.

She shudders all over and sets herself, determined. With her feet bare and her hair loose, she pads out of her bedroom, determined not to end the day without some kind of resolution. Because this — this just can't go on any longer.


	9. Chapter 9

She strolls across to the library, where he is already waiting for her, bent over the long table, looking at her map from the previous day. She was right, he _is_ wearing The Jeans, and they're stretched tight on his bent-over form in a way that makes her mouth water.

She inhales quietly — _no more pretenses_ — moves forward, and puts a hand on his back. He turns his head to smile at her with every appearance of calm welcome, but she can feel the long muscles jump under her hand.

"Just adding my own key areas to everything you marked for the Cabal," he says, with that hint of a rumble in his voice that always echoes inside her.

"Okay," she says, thrumming inside, leaning over beside him. "Walk me through it."

He starts talking, and just keeps going, drawing her in.

As they work, through lunch and into the afternoon, he paces constantly between the table and a bare section of wall where he's started tacking up small pieces of paper with key names and dates written on them. He draws complicated networks of lines between the pieces right on the wall with a red Sharpie that he digs out of a drawer, showing an uncharacteristic disregard for his surroundings. He's not only extremely thorough, but enthusiastic, stopping every once in a while to quiz her and make sure she's remembering the details.

Her map is beginning to look like a crazy quilt, and she is surrounded by so much note paper that she looks like the victim of an extremely singular weather event. She's starting to lose track of what he's talking about — she's tired from her long night, and on edge from watching him, watching and wanting.

She's entranced by his intensity, the intricacy of the world he has built; by the way he moves, swift, sure, precise. It amazes her that someone who uses his hands so much when he speaks can still preserve such economy of movement and portray such grace. She wonders how quickly a person can become obsessed.

She's fairly certain he's been watching her too, though, even if she hasn't caught him at it. Sometimes the weight of his gaze is strong enough that it feels like a hand on her body or a breath tracing down her neck. She doesn't know if it's just abstraction, or if he's tied up in as many knots as she is.

* * *

He's wondering how he could have ever thought he could live with her and not give himself away, especially living like this, alone, enclosed, trapped. Her legs seem impossibly long, her slender bare feet shockingly erotic. He only just escaped being caught lost in contemplation of the porcelain swell of her cleavage. And simply standing at the table beside her, with the warmth of her seeping into his body, was almost unbearable in its exquisite pleasure.

And yet, there were moments when he could have sworn that she was looking at him, when he felt the pressure of her gaze on the back of his head, on his body. But he hasn't managed to catch her at it. He looks at her now, absorbed in her notes, chewing absently on the end of her pen, intent on her map and so lovely that it hurts.

She looks up at him, and offers a slow smile. "I think I'm done for today, Red," she says. "All the names are starting to blur together."

"Counter-productive," he agrees. "Are you hungry, Lizzie?"

Then something comes swimming into her eyes, something hot and bright that he doesn't want to try and name; everything about her is suddenly more intense and focused.

"You know," she says, her voice different than he's heard before. "I am."

His heart quickens a little, instinct responding over intellect, but he admonishes himself inwardly not to be foolish.

"What would you like?" he asks, tone the same as always, making him thankful for the many years of practice in controlling his voice and features.

She smiles again, but now, now there's a hint of something new; there's something wicked in it, something he can't refuse to recognize.

"I would like," she says, precisely and carefully, but low and soft with invitation. "For you to come over here."

* * *

And now it's out there, she thinks, her leap of faith taken, cards on the table.

She holds herself still with effort, knowing it's his choice to make, now, that what he does next is important. And the silence stretches out between them in agonizing stillness as he just looks at her, mouth held thin, eyes questioning, wondering — if she didn't know better, she'd think he looks afraid.

He squares up his body suddenly, and she quails inside, sure she has made a grievous misstep. But no, no, she knows he wants this, her, them, she won't just let it pass by. She shutters her nerves fiercely and, thinking her voice might betray her, holds out a hand. She focuses her strength on keeping it steady, and her eyes on his.

He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then closes it, watching her as she waits for him, still wishing, still wanting. Then, his posture changes again. He looks entirely different — longer, leaner, with the distinct air of something feline about him. Then, he moves, and saunters across the room to stand in front of her, in her space, close. Close, so his body heat mingles with hers, close, so his eyes burn into her.

"What would you like?" he asks again, but now his voice is low and deep and rough, and it sends a tremor down her spine.

Nervous now, she licks her lips; sees his eyes flare in response. It bolsters her enough, just enough.

"This," she answers simply, and steps forward into him, touches her lips to his.

And she's not sure what she expected, but it wasn't this, this explosion of heat, lust coursing through her like wildfire.

 _He's… growling_ , she thinks blurrily, entranced and bemused all at once. Then there's no more time to think anything at all; it's all lips and tongues and teeth and furious passion. She grabs onto his shirt like a lifeline as his fingers twist into her hair — it's almost painful but she welcomes it, revels in this undoing.

They break apart, panting, both gone wild-eyed and shocky. He tries to breathe, brace himself, to staunch the fierce desire trying to claw its way out of him like an animal, to say something sensible and step away. She sees it, sees it in his face, in the set of his mouth, and to forestall him, because the last thing she wants to hear is that reasonable tone — she'll stab him again if he utters a single sound — she yanks off her shirt in one smooth movement, then jerks his out of his pants to slide her hands underneath and run them over his skin.

At her touch, he moans, eyelids fluttering closed; his hands come up to her waist to pull her into his body, stroking her, gentling her even as his mouth fastens over hers in rough demand.

Something is rising inside her, something new and strange, uncontrollable and ferocious and wild. She opens herself to it, welcoming the rush of adrenalin and the loss of the weight on her heart.

She tears away from him to strip off his shirt; she doesn't notice the way he stills, stops breathing, she's too lost, blind to everything but the raging tide within. He cups her face in one shaking hand, but no, not now, she can't, she _needs_. She nips impatiently at his fingers, fumbles at his belt, fingers trembling and clumsy. He closes his hands over hers and tugs them away.

She blinks to clear her vision, searching, but she doesn't need to worry — he looks as lost as she is, his eyes gone dark, his expression absolutely devastating. He drops her hands and shifts his body so he can lean in and strip her of her leggings and panties together in a long, strong pull downward. As he straightens up again, he pushes her against the edge of the table; grasps her hips to boost her up to sitting, papers crumpling beneath her.

He steps into her, between her legs, kisses her again deep and long, then bends his head to take her breast into his mouth, sucking hard through the silky fabric of her bra, teasing her nipple with his teeth, and the sensation shoots straight to her clit. She cries out, an agony of ecstasy, digs her fingers into his scalp, wanting him closer, wanting all of him. He lets go of her to deftly flip open his jeans and she finds this brief absence almost unbearable.

"Hurry," she chants, "Hurry, hurry." She's frantic with need, mindless with it, reaches out to clutch at him and pull him in.

He's bare under the jeans, surprising but welcome, and her breath hitches a little as his cock bobs free, thick and hard and dark. He kicks his pants aside and grabs her hips, pulling her right to the edge of the table; he uses a knee to push her legs further apart and reveal her already glistening core.

He shivers once, all over, and then looks at her, barely restrained, the question in his eyes.

"Yes," she pants, "Yes, Red, I want you, I want your hands, your mouth, all over me. Inside, over, under. On me, around me. Surround me, take me over. Make me yours."

She reaches for him as he says her name, once, like an oath, like a curse, like a promise.

He holds her in place with one hand and uses the other to line up his throbbing cock with the mouth of her pussy, then pushes into her, right to the hilt, in a long, hard stroke that makes her gasp.

Her mouth finds the pulse in his neck, sucking and licking; her hands grasp the edge of the table for purchase as her legs wrap around his hips. He grips her ass with both hands, fingers bruising, using the leverage to thrust in and out of her in a punishing rhythm, over and over. She cries out, please, more, harder, but he can barely hear her.

Without warning, she shatters, shatters like glass into an orgasm so intense that she can't breathe; she struggles under his hands, but can't break away, can't find control, she's disintegrating. She's coming in wave after wave, and if she could, she'd be screaming. She finally heaves a desperate breath; puts her teeth to the juncture of his neck and shoulder and bites down, hard.

He comes with a wordless shout, climaxing in hot spurts that go on and on, body rigid against hers, his teeth bared and face fierce.

Minutes later, maybe hours, his body starts to ease; he slips out of her and drops his head to rest on her shoulder, breathing hard, his face damp with exertion.

She puts her lips to the side of his head, manages to lift an arm to rub a hand over his hair.

She wonders, dizzy and limp, leaning into him so she doesn't fall over, _what next?_


	10. Chapter 10

He breathes in and out slowly, focusing on regaining at least a portion, even the smallest particle of control. The warmth of her body against his soothes him, even as the tremble that he can feel in her hand on his head worries him a little. He feels raw, scoured inside and out, left flush with satisfaction, clean and new, but ashamed.

Ashamed and guilty and worried — he had taken her with no more care and consideration than an animal, sitting on a table, for God's sake, as if she were nothing more than means to an end. And yet, all he can think about is doing it all again — rough and hard and over and over — until he possesses her completely.

Her quiet sigh interrupts his obsessive thoughts — her legs slip from around his hips to dangle from the table edge, and he feels her other arm come around him and rub against his skin.

 _Wait_ , he thinks, struggling to gather his thoughts together, _wait, there's something I need…_

Before he can speak, her chin hooks over his shoulder and he feels her breath tease down his back.

"Red," very quietly, "Is this… Are those from the fire?"

With more reluctance than he ever imagined, he lifts his head from its nest in the crook of her neck and pulls away from her, just enough so that he can look her in the eyes.

"Yes." The simplest answer.

She looks at him carefully, evaluating his expression. "All right," she says calmly, touching his face as if to ease him. "I already knew that you were there that night, Red. I just didn't know you'd been hurt, let alone so terribly. Do you want to tell me about it?"

He looks back at her, taken a little aback by the question, by any question rather than demands or recriminations. Her clear, cool face shows nothing but sincerity.

"Not really," he says honestly. "It's an ugly story."

"Okay," she replies, surprising him more. "Then why don't we forget it for now, go somewhere a little more comfortable, and do this again?"

He laughs at that, low and rich, then puts his hands on her face and kisses her soundly. "Great minds, Lizzie." And he offers her a hand.

* * *

His room is the closest, so they end up there.

He turns her to face him, drinks her in, lean and strong, in nothing but her damp bra. "Lizzie," he growls, suddenly ravenous again.

She smiles slowly at him, eyes darkening, the loveliest flush spreading from her face down her body. Without looking away, she reaches back to unhook her bra, and then lets it slip from her body and waits, naked and unashamed, for his response.

A shudder runs through him like an electric current, sparks of fiery heat following its path along his veins like a fuse has just been lit. He flexes his fingers, tries to take her all in at once, not sure where he wants to touch first. His cock has no such delicacy, and twitches eagerly, already beginning to harden again; she sees it and grins at him like a cat.

Before he can blink she has dropped to her knees and taken him into her mouth, her hand coming up to grip him at the base, her delicate fingers unpredictably strong. With a moan, his hands come up to rest on her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. Her mouth is like a furnace around him, her tongue soft and questing. She takes a long draw of him, her mouth sliding up to the head of him, teasing at the tip with her tongue. He moans again, _Lizzie_ , his fingers tightening in her hair, trying to keep his hips from thrusting forward as his cock thickens and hardens under her ministrations.

She hums a little as he swells to fill her, enjoying his reactions, then sucks him back into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing as she pulls him deep. She moves her head, now, sliding up and down his length, her hand working him in tandem with her lips and tongue and ( _God_ ) just a light touch of teeth.

He's slick now, with her saliva and his own pre-ejaculate, and the sounds emanating from their joining along with the sight of himself driving in and out of her are maddeningly erotic. He's hard as a stone, and the ache in his balls as he starts to quicken is too much. Not this time, not yet, he thinks, he needs to be inside her more than anything else.

He tugs on her hair, a little desperate; her dark eyes look up at him through her lashes, and the sheer lust in her gaze pierces him like a knife. Giving up any and all pretense of control, he yanks her off and up, his dick coming out of her mouth with a small wet pop.

She licks her lips, savouring, and he can't, he just can't. "Red," she murmurs huskily, but there's nothing left but the hunger and the pounding need to mate. He plunders her mouth with his own, reaching down her damp body to thrust two fingers inside her, hard and fast. She's wet already, already or still, and he drives her quickly and ruthlessly to a quivering climax. She's still shaking with it under and around his hands as he spins her around, presses a hand against her back to urge her torso to lie flat on the bed.

He takes a moment, just one, to look at her — the long line of her back, the dark tumble of her hair against the white sheets, the pale, lovely curve of her ass in the air before him. The sight is almost enough to undo him before he has a chance to touch her again.

He bends over her to nip at her neck, to lick down the bumps of her spine; she's trembling beneath him, lost in want, reaching back to clutch at him with a shaking hand. He wonders if the drumbeat in his ears is his own heartbeat or hers, and decides it must be both.

He gently kicks her feet apart, exposing her saturated folds and opening her to him. Bracing himself with a firm hand on her back, he thrusts in right to the root with no further preamble, unable to wait, unable to gentle himself.

She lets out a choked cry in response; the force of his thrust pushing her into the side of the bed, the angle making it more difficult to take him in. He shifts a little — grasps one of her wrists in each hand and pins them to the mattress beside her head, learning over her without quite touching her as he starts to plunge in and out in earnest.

She utters a near-constant stream of the most delightful moans, cries, and gasps; never has he imagined that she would be so vocal a lover, so responsive to every touch when she is normally so reserved, as if something has been unleashed inside her that she has kept hidden for far too long.

She clutches at the sheets beneath her, and the feel of the hot, wet walls of her pussy beginning to tighten around him is enough to send him spiraling. He keens wordlessly as she sobs out his name again, pulsing together in a violent and unrelenting orgasm that leaves them both limp and breathless.

Still buried deep inside her, completely undone, he lets his body drop into hers, their sweat-soaked bodies sticking together. With his face in her hair, he breathes in her scent — salt and citrus and more than a hint of his own spicy musk. With the very last of his strength, he rolls his body so it's fully on the bed, pulling her up after and wrapping himself around her.

As she sighs contentedly, snuggling back into his body, he wonders how it's possible that he still wants so badly. He wonders, a little madly, that if these first times together haven't done it, if this raging desire within him can ever be quenched.


	11. Chapter 11

She drifts, slow and lazy, to a state half-awake, half-asleep, floating on a sea of quiet euphoria. Everything just feels so… _good_ , as if she's been carrying tension for years that has now been released. She feels good, in the way you only do when you didn't know how bad you felt until the pain was suddenly gone.

She wonders, vaguely — if she'd known, had any inkling of what would be unleashed, if she would still have made that first move. Feeling the pleasant ache in her arms and legs, the faint throb still present between her legs, she thinks that her only real regret is not making it sooner.

A little bit more awake now, she moves her legs to stretch — or tries to, since she finds that she cannot move at all. She's all tangled up, hot enough to border on discomfort, and there's something heavy there, what… she blinks her eyes open to find herself wrapped up in Red.

He's lying curled behind her, his body spooning hers; now that she's more or less awake, she can feel his warm breath on the back of her neck. But he's also got both arms wrapped tightly around her torso, and his legs wound around hers in a puzzle of limbs.

 _Well_ , she muses sleepily, snuggling back into the cocoon of his body, _who could have guessed that the infamous Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime himself, is a_ cuddler _?_

* * *

It's scent that first permeates his consciousness — the light, clean scent of Lizzie's shampoo; the healthy salt of sweat; the faint, lingering musk of sex. Then touch arrives — feathery brushes of her hair against his face, his neck; her soft, smooth skin against his own, everywhere he can feel; the welcome pressure of the warm curve of her backside pressed into his belly, his cock.

More awake with every sensation, he starts to hear her soft, even breaths, the hum of the power converter. He opens his eyes to surprising darkness, then realizes his face is buried in her neck, her hair. He shifts back a little, finding he needs to loosen his arms a bit to do it, but he wants to _see_ too, to fill every aspect of his being with her.

In the dim solar light, her hair is a tumble of dark silk, her ivory skin almost luminous. The sleek curve of her back may be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Cool air starts to float into the small space between their bodies; she gives a little grumble of protest and wriggles backward to regain his solid comfort. The touch of her skin, the little shimmy of her ass against him, is enough to have his cock give a little twitch of interest. He shakes his head inwardly at himself — this insistent wanting is starting to border on ridiculous; his need edging into compulsion.

Then he hears her low little humming laugh, and his spirit quails a tiny bit — but he doesn't need to worry.

"Really, Red?" she murmurs, her tone teasing. "Again? And here I thought that at your age, you'd…"

The rest of her words are muffled and lost as he laughingly twists her underneath him and kisses her, long and hard enough to leave her gasping and glazed. He props himself up on his elbows above her.

"Do you want me to show you again, sweetheart, just what I'm 'still' capable of? Or should we eat?"

She wants to laugh back, but can't help the frisson of heat that runs down her spine at his words.

"Hmmm…" she says, trying to seem conflicted, "As much as I'd _love_ to see what else you have to show me, I am also very, very hungry." She flashes a quick grin. "I think we missed lunch."

He laughs out loud at that, swept with an unexpected wave of warmth, happiness. "Come along, then, sweetheart," he replies cheerily. "And I'll fill you up." With what she can only term a saucy wink, he levers himself up and off the bed.

* * *

They fall back on leftovers from the previous night, neither of them willing to wait for something fresh to be ready, both of them attacking the food as if they haven't eaten for weeks. Red maintains his cheer through the meal, making her laugh with one salacious story after another, each more ridiculous than the last.

And she marvels a little, as they sit companionably, eating, talking, laughing, in a way she would have thought impossible — if she had even thought to imagine it. There's an ease between them that's as welcome as it is newfound — Red, shirtless in his faded Jeans; Liz curled in just his soft tee; it feels as if they have been a couple for years.

As they finish up, Red's last story winds to a close; he hesitates, then looks up. The instant their eyes meet, the heat flares again, quicker than the lighting of a match. She wonders at it, at the surge of lust — she's always enjoyed sex, but this animal heat, this burning, insatiable need, is something altogether different. He's taken her twice in the space of a few hours — hard, demanding, rough — taken her and taken her over like a swirl of madness, and she reveled in it.

She shivers, just thinking of it, and sees something flare in the back of his eyes. Delighted to see it — their connection might be new and strange, but she intends to enjoy it — she smiles at him, slow and sultry.

"Well," she says easily, "Sweetheart," with a wink of her own, "Shower?"

She stands and pulls off his shirt in one smooth move; drops the shirt into his lap and saunters out and across the great room toward the bath.

 _Gauntlet thrown, is it_ , he thinks, with equal amounts of amusement and hunger. This is one dare he'll be more than happy to take.

* * *

He waits a minute, watching her walk, watching it even when he can't see her anymore. He thinks he may have dropped at least a decade in the last couple of days.

When he does get to the bathroom, Jeans left behind on the kitchen floor, steam is already unfurling behind the glass door, leaving him with only brief, tantalizing glimpses of slick skin under the pounding spray.

He was already half-hard just from their exchange of heated glances, her unabashed nudity, the purr of her voice. The sight of her as he slips into the shower takes him the rest of the way in a flash.

She feels the tendril of cold air even as she hears the soft click of the door, and turns to greet him with a smile. His body has been a surprise to her — there's softness to it, yes, and he's a bit thicker in the torso than a younger man might be. But he's solid underneath it, long ropes of muscle and power that make his physical self more than a match for his lightning, formidable mind.

The way she's looking at him, evaluating, is making him want, want all over again with a ferocious need. He puts his hands on her hips to draw her in, wanting to take her mouth, feel her wet, slick skin against his own. But she pulls back, resisting; grabbing a bottle from the shelf beside them, she fills her cupped hand with his spicy body wash.

His breath quickens as she starts to rub her hands over him — across his chest and shoulders, down his arms right to his hands and fingers. She prods at him gently so he turns; she washes his back, carefully tracing the map of his scars, then moving more firmly to the small of his back and over the curve of his ass.

Rather than soap, it feels like she is coating him in electricity, his body lighting like a flare in the wake of her touch. When she runs a finger down the cleft of his ass, steps in close to run her hands around his hips to stroke up and down his cock, twitching and eager, when she cups his balls in a slick palm, he thinks he could easily go off like a rocket then and there.

She's kissing him now, as she touches him, light touches of her lips at the nape of his neck, along a shoulder, in the center of his scar tissue, which sends a spear of sensation straight to his groin. The heat, the water, her mouth and hands; they all act on him like a drug. He feels dizzy and weak, no longer ferocious, his lust now curling and uncurling inside him like a lazy cat stretching.

She's licking at him now, picking up water droplets with little flicks of her tongue that make him jerk in her hand, that start to dial up the heat and cloud his head even more. He groans appreciatively with a growl of her name; she slides under his arm where it's braced on the shower wall so that she can take his mouth with long, hypnotic sweeps of her tongue. Her hands reach up to clasp around the back of his neck; his move to cling to her hips in a desperate effort to stay afloat.

He nips at her lips, then breaks away to lower his mouth to her breasts, sucking an already pebbled nipple into his mouth as she tips her head back on a sigh. Holding her, trapping her between his mouth and a hard arm, he lets a hand slide over her leg and dip into her damp cleft. She moans in heady pleasure as he circles her clit, increasing and lessening the pressure in turn until she's rubbing along his hand, mewling and scratching at his scalp.

"Go on, Lizzie," he grinds out, holding himself back with a huge effort. "Give it to me, _now_."

Then he pinches her clit firmly and closes his teeth over her nipple at the same time; she cries out and clings to him, her flingers flexing on his neck in rhythm with the wet pulsing of her pussy. _So beautiful_ , he thinks, and lifts his head to plunder her mouth as he backs her into the shower wall.

He dips his hips a little as he yanks her leg up around his hipbone, opening the way for him to push into her fiercely. She wails out his name, _God, Red_ , as the pressure of his cock inside her triggers a fresh orgasm. He thrusts in and out, trying to take it slow, to draw out the experience, but he can't, can't, he's swept away again and drowning in her.

He releases on a heavy moan, kissing her soft and swollen lips over and over, pressing into her as close as he can get.

As they lean against the wall, panting, readjusting their view of the world and of each other, she hears him rasp, "So, now it's my turn to wash you, Lizzie?" and she collapses against him in a fit of helpless giggles.


	12. Chapter 12

She stands at the bathroom counter, wrapped in one soft, fluffy bath sheet, and watches him in the mirror as he hand-dries her hair with another. A lot of her life over the past year has become surreal, but she thinks this might just hit the top of that list.

She feels all warm and soft, loose-limbed and pliable but still a little pumped up on endorphins; she is full of an affection for Red that is both familiar and newly warm at once. And yet… she still has so many questions. There is so much history and deceit lying between them that she wonders, even now, how close they can ever really become. No matter how intense it is, she thinks, a little dolefully, sex is one thing; intimacy something else.

He's rubbing gently at the ends across her shoulders now, and despite the disquiet of her thoughts, she thinks that if her body gets any more relaxed, she'll have to just curl up where she is and sleep on the bathroom tile. He smiles at her in the mirror, shaking out the towel and leaning over to hang it up. He puts his hands on her upper arms and bends in to kiss her neck.

"It's late, sweetheart," he murmurs into her skin. "Time for bed?"

"Oh, yes," she answers. She hesitates a moment, then asks, because she has to, "Will we… Are you… Do you…" She gives any kind of tact or subtlety up as a bad job and says baldly, "Your room or mine, then?"

"I don't mind which, although your sheets are cleaner," he says with a wry smile. "Just so you understand, Lizzie, I have no intention of letting you go off alone."

Part of the knot of worry inside her chest loosens at his confident reassurance; she doesn't know why she is always, still, surprised at how well he can read her.

"I'll just go and get my pajamas," he says, and kisses the top of her head.

"Okay," she replies, smiling now, too. "See you in a minute, then." _Okay_ , she thinks, as he leaves the bathroom, _we'll have a go at intimacy, then_.

And the thought is surprisingly welcome.

* * *

He stands in front of his dresser in his cotton pajama pants, debating over wearing a t-shirt. He shrugs at himself in the mirror — the more he wears, the more uncomfortable he'll be, and she's already seen him naked, seen his back, knows the worst.

He slips back into the bathroom to complete his nighttime rituals; she's already finished up and gone, and he wonders if it's strange that it saddens him that he missed the opportunity to brush his teeth beside her at the sink. _Because it's the little intimacies_ , he thinks, _that really bring people closer together_.

Teeth clean, bladder empty, dry and clean and with no more reason to delay, he flicks off the light and enters her room. She's left the bedside lamp glowing; she's curled on her side at the far edge of the bed, watching the door for him.

He approaches and climbs into the bed facing her, slow and careful.

"I'm sorry," she says, in a rush, voice a little tight. "I should have waited for you — I don't know which side you prefer, I…"

He interrupts her with a touch on the cheek, finds a smile for her; the contact serves to calm them both. "It's been a very long time since I shared a bed, even for a night, Lizzie. I really don't mind either way."

She flushes a little, and he wants to laugh but doesn't. "I think we're past the point of being embarrassed, don't you?"

She pulls her knees up a little further, frowning at him. "You tell me, Red," she says, suddenly intense. "I've seen you, all of you; I've touched every part of you, given and taken pleasure. But it's all superficial. You're still closed to me, where it counts. Still guarding your secrets and keeping yourself safe."

"Lizzie, I…" he trails off, thinking, then rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "Will you do something for me, Lizzie — Elizabeth?"

She's a little startled by his use of her full name, by his tone; she starts to reach out to touch him, but reconsiders and tucks her hand back into the crook of her knee. "I promise to listen to you," she says quietly. "Really listen, this time."

He can't help the wry twist his mouth makes in response. "Correct me if I'm wrong, then, but you've only just begun to… look at me, yes? Just started to see me as an attractive man, to see me in a… sexual way over the last couple of days."

She flushes again, and the loveliness of her makes him ache. "I… I guess that's true, Red, at least… consciously."

He makes an interested inner note at her qualification as something to come back to later.

"What you I think you don't realize is that _I_ have seen _you_ … I have wanted you, Lizzie, since the day you first walked into the Post Office. You were so beautiful — nervous, maybe even frightened, but still strong and defiant. Working with you, knowing you, has only nurtured and intensified my… admiration. It was, I suppose, tolerable, in our previous relationship, working side by side, knowing I would never have the right to touch you."

He takes a deep breath and rubs at his face with his hand. "But now, now I have, and God, sweetheart, this… this connection, this inferno between us is so bright and lovely and vital, I could not have guessed… I can't…"

A long blink; an attempt to regain some control over his voice, his face, which he knows are giving him away. "Will you give me a little time? To just… be with you, be together? To just be Red and Lizzie, two people discovering one another, without thinking about all the history… the baggage?"

She stays quiet for a few moments, touched by his earnest simplicity, surprised by his confession. Most of all, she's saddened by the way he looks at her, as if he expects this openness, this honesty, to be punished, to break this… thing between them and end up alone again.

She does reach out, now, to lay her palm against his cheek, to once again let touch anchor them both.

"I _need_ answers from you, Red," she says carefully. "It's not a whim or a job or anything but personal now. But," she continues, faster now as the green in his eyes starts to fade into grey. "I can wait. I've… never felt this… never experienced this kind of powerful connection. I… I guess I wouldn't mind some time, either, to see what's here, what's right for… Red and Lizzie."

And the smile that he gives her in return is so blindingly happy that she can only think how beautiful he is as she shifts to kiss him, to wrap her arms around him and give him a chance, for a change, to feel safe.


	13. Chapter 13

He wakes slowly, pleasantly, feeling well-rested and possibly even… content, as he surfaces out of sleep. He's warm and comfortable, cocooned in blankets, with his limbs full… full of Lizzie.

He smiles softly and takes a deep breath to absorb the scent of her hair. Unable to stop himself, he nuzzles into her neck, tightening his arms just a little, wanting to feel every piece of her he can, curled into him like she belongs there. Her soft skin and long limbs prod his memory; just as he starts to grow warm inside, remembering, she stirs against him, her bare feet rubbing lightly against his own.

She murmurs a little, arching her spine into him with a catlike stretch. "Good morning, Red," she says softly, her voice husky with sleep, rousing him further.

"Lizzie," he replies, voice low and rich, breath hot on her neck. "Sleep well, sweetheart?"

She shifts in his arms, gently pulling her legs free of their tangle with his so that she can roll to face him. The first thing he sees is the smile on her face, and everything inside him goes soft at the sight of it.

"I slept…" She hesitates and lowers her eyes.

He reaches up to touch her face, to reassure; can't stop himself from rubbing his thumb gently over her full lower lip. She inhales shakily; blinks; sighs.

"Red," she says, leaning into his hand. "I slept better than I have in months."

He closes his eyes briefly and lets his head slide across the pillow to rest against hers.

"Me too," he admits. "Only you'd have to make it years. I haven't slept so well, or for so long, in years."

Moved, she covers his hand on her face with hers. "Kiss me good morning?" she suggests, striving for lightness, but not quite making it.

"It would be my pleasure," he says, succeeding where she failed with light words; feeling anything but as he captures her delectable mouth with his own.

Still, he intended only a brush of lips, a greeting, a reassurance that they were of like mind and heart. But, like before, like each and every time — _will it always be like this?_ — the lightest touch of her soft, sweet lips sets the banked fires within him ablaze. It takes a split second for his tender caress to change to a wild devouring; he needs more than a simple kiss, he wants everything she has, and more. The only thing left in the world is her.

* * *

When his senses return momentarily, sparked by the feel of her nails digging into his back, she's pressed beneath him, her hair a tangled knot in his fist, her tank shoved up around her neck as his other hand roughly massages her breast. The marks of fresh love bites scatter across her collarbones, the upper swells of her chest. He remembers the raging, primitive urge to brand her, to permanently mark her as his. He is as hard and aching as if it has been months since his last release, rather than mere hours. He wonders if he has lost his mind.

He tries to gather his thoughts; focuses on her face. "Lizzie," he chokes out, grasping at sanity, fumbling for the shreds of his civility, humanity.

She thrills him utterly when she hums softly in pleasure and blinks her eyes open to meet his gaze, her blue irises gone hazy with lust.

"Mmm… Red…" she purrs, squeezing him firmly with the legs he only now realizes are clamped around his hips like a vise. "Don't stop…"

He just stares at her, mesmerized, hovering.

She smiles, then, with more than a touch of wicked. "Tired?" she asks, that hint of mischief in her voice that he finds simultaneously infuriating and arousing. "Allow me." And she gives a twist of her hips that knocks him off balance, and he finds himself abruptly underneath her, looking up, now, into her laughing eyes.

"Mmm," she murmurs, low and sweet. "Where to start…"

Every nerve ending in his body tingles and burns; his cock already leaks lightly in anticipation. "Be my guest, Lizzie," he manages. He reaches out to touch her — somewhere, anywhere.

"Ah, ah," she says, appallingly cheerful. "I think not." She takes him by the wrists; presses them to the mattress, leaning into him. She quirks her eyebrows at him; he nods, speechless, more than willing to play along.

Satisfied, she hops up and strips with quick efficiency. He wonders if he's literally drooling, or if he's managing to maintain a small piece of dignity. He watches, barely restraining himself, as she climbs back on the bed and swings a leg over his abdomen. She meets his eyes as she palms her breasts; moaning as her thumbs and fingers pinch and extend her nipples. She settles into him, back arching a little, her ass brushing the tip of his cock so he twitches, again and again.

She lets her hands slip from her breasts, sighing, running her fingers down the planes of her sides and scraping her nails up his ribcage and through the hair on his chest. She leans over to follow the path of her nails with her tongue, leaving hot, wet trails that make him shiver.

She slides backward to his thighs, the friction as she rubs down his body making him moan. She leans down and yanks at the drawstring of his pajama pants with her teeth, her hands hooking under the waistband and drawing them downward. She nudges his leg with a knee; he lifts his rear a bit so she can pull his pants off. She moves down his legs with them, tosses them to the floor. As she crawls back up the bed, still focusing her gaze on his, he thinks he might just blow on the spot. When she settles back onto his thighs and wraps a hot hand around him, he groans, itching to move his hands, to touch, to grasp, to cling. He doesn't; this stillness may be the most difficult thing he has ever done.

"Lizzie," he rasps, wanting to be inside her more than he's wanted anything, ever. " _Please_."

She closes her eyes briefly, as if the desperation in his voice has overwhelmed her. Then, in a series of graceful movements, she rises to her knees, positions herself, and engulfs his cock in one smooth rush, giving a small mewl of pleasure as the junctures of their bodies meet.

His vision blurs as she starts to move; he thrusts helplessly into her as she rides him, her hands pressing into his shoulders, her legs gripping his. Her panting breaths are incredibly erotic, and it doesn't take long for him to start to tighten, the heat in his belly burning.

"Lizzie," he grinds out, pleading (he won't go without her, he can't). "What do you need?"

"Kiss me," she says, and bends her head to his.

The press of lips, tangle of tongues, friction of their bodies pressed and moving together causes the intensity to build until it pushes them both over the edge, crying out together, pleasure cresting in a wave.

* * *

Later, they eat breakfast, sitting in friendly silence. Lizzie wears nothing but a button-down of Red's, filched from his closet while he shaved; Red is back in The Jeans and a worn Arsenal shirt. He absently runs a bare foot up and down her leg while he eats; her fingers toy with the hair on his arm as she munches toast and pores over a stack of notes from the previous day.

"Well," he says finally, taking a last, lingering sip of coffee. "This is positively domestic."

She starts a little at that, flushing, and snatches her hand back to clench in her lap. "Sorry," she mumbles, looking away. "It just… I… needed to touch you."

He reaches out to take back her hand. "Don't misunderstand me, sweetheart," he says gently, using his other hand to nudge her chin so she's facing him again. "I'm rather enjoying it. And I know just what you mean. The touch, it… centers me."

She smiles in relief and pleasure, a little sigh escaping. "What's on the agenda today, then?" she asks.

"Today," he replies, "I should… _we_ should be getting an email from Dembe, telling us to either stay put, or giving details for our extraction, if it's safe."

"Wait," she says, disbelieving. "Wait a minute. All this time… _there's internet down here, and you're just NOW mentioning it_?"

"Well," he says, eying her cautiously, "Not exactly. I have to hook everything up. There's CAT5 cable coming in, spliced off the service at the ranger station in the park. But since we're using their connection — a government connection, Lizzie — we have to be extremely judicious using it, to avoid notice."

"All right," she says, an odd expression on her face. "That makes sense. You've got a computer in here somewhere?"

"Yes, there's a laptop in the library. I'm just going out to the service corridor to connect to the port there, and we'll be in business."

He rises from the table, raising a questioning eyebrow when she stands up with him.

"Do you need something else, sweetheart?" he asks.

"Just pants," she answers, her voice full of repressed laughter, mischief back in her face, her cornflower eyes. "You couldn't pay me to miss this."


	14. Chapter 14

He hasn't said a word since they left the kitchen — she wonders if she could possibly have hurt his feelings. To his credit, he had waited for her to dress before striding out into the entrance hall and leading her through a small side door to what he called the "service corridor", which seemed to curve all the way around the snug little home.

He'd led her through the corridor counter-clockwise about a quarter turn, then stopped and looked up and down the outside wall. She wasn't sure what he'd been expecting to see, but what was there was just a long hank of bright blue cable coming through a rough hole in the outer wall, coiled up on the floor. She couldn't even see a connector on the end — it was just a cut cable.

He'd stood there a moment, looking very much like he wanted to punch something (or someone), then he'd turned and stalked back the way they'd come. She'd stayed still, wondering what they would do. Did he have a sat phone? Was it safe enough to slip above ground at night long enough to contact Dembe, or Mr. Kaplan?

He'd come back quickly, though, before she had time to work up a good worry, with a toolbox in one hand and a stepladder in the other. She'd raised an eyebrow at that, but he shot her such a quelling glare that she'd subsided quietly to lean against the inner wall and watch.

And become intrigued with him, all over again.

She'd watched, as he took a pair of wire strippers, pliers, and a connector, and neatly and efficiently capped the cable.

She'd watched, as he took a handful of cable clips, a hammer, and the stepladder, and tidily tacked the cable up, over the ceiling, and down the inner wall.

She'd watched, as he'd measured up the wall from the floor, taken a small drywall saw, and cut a small neat hole in the inner wall. All silently, ignoring her completely.

As he crouches down by the wall, feeding cable, she enjoys watching the muscles in his back move smoothly. She also can't quite help (and doesn't really want to help) admiring the tight curve of his ass.

He straightens up, finished, sees her watching him (checking out his ass), and smiles sardonically at her, taking his turn to raise an eyebrow. _Well_ , she thinks, _if I_ did _hurt his feelings, he's more than earned an apology_.

"I'm sorry I doubted you, Red," she says sweetly. "I don't know why I bother to continue to be surprised by your hidden depths. Sometimes I think you're nothing _but_ depths." And she grins at him, making friends again.

"It's also curiously sexy," she adds, reaching out to run a hand up his forearm, "Watching you work with your hands."

And she sees the tension in him ease as he laughs, low and rich.

"Well, now," he says, taking her hand and pulling her into him. " _That's_ the kind of surprise I can enjoy giving you." He bends his head and gives her long, deep kiss, then pulls away, leaving her breathless and dizzy.

"Come on, then," he says, letting her go with a cheerful pat on the butt. "Let's go and see what Dembe has for us, shall we?"

And he collects his tools and ladder, and strolls off along the corridor, leaving her to follow, shaky-limbed, in his wake.

* * *

In the library, it turns out — completely unsurprisingly, now — that he has put the cable through the wall directly behind the desk. He pulls a sleek-looking laptop out of a drawer and plugs the newly capped cable into the Ethernet port without so much as blinking an eye. She rolls hers behind his back, wondering just how many disguises he wears at once, anyway.

He logs into Hotmail ( _Oh, for God's sake_ , she thinks, _seriously?_ ), clicks a few times, and then gives a noncommittal grunt.

"Well, Lizzie," he says, turning to her with a smile — although she thinks it's a bit strained, now. "Fresh air and sunshine are in our near future — Dembe will be picking us up in the park tonight."

"So… it's all clear?" she asks, unsure of his reaction. "Really? What's Ressler up to — did Dembe say anything?"

"He managed to send the bulk of the task force to Brazil on a false lead," he answers, pride in his tone now. "We'll already be in Switzerland by the time they get back."

She just looks at him, and he smiles, a little clearer, this time.

"Safe house in the country," he says. "And we can be a lot more effective above ground, right? Are you ready, Lizzie, to fight for yourself?"

She takes a deep breath, in, out.

"For myself," she agrees. "And for you."

* * *

Later, they've eaten lunch, and arranged the rest of the food as best they can — Red assures her that cleaners will be through within a week to scrub all trace of them from the house.

He's in his bedroom, packing up a small bag of clothes and what he terms "necessities of life, Lizzie."

She couldn't care less about clothes, and is prioritizing the work they've done, not willing to let go of the information he's shared with her, the pieces of himself that his business represents. She's gathered her copious notes into a leather case that she found in a cupboard. She also dug up a small camera, in the same drawer the laptop had come from, and is taking carefully sectioned shots of his crazy-quilt of notes and mapped lines on the wall when he comes in.

"I thought you'd be packing," he says quietly. "It took me a minute to find you in here."

"What you've given me here is far more important than clothes, Red," she replies earnestly. "Your trust, your belief that I can work with you, be a part of your team, of this fight — that's what I need."

She reaches out for his hand, but he moves away slowly, and sits heavily in the recliner in the corner of the room.

"We… we should talk about what will happen, out there," he says, an awkward discomfort and unhappiness etched onto his face.

"I know it won't be easy," she says, a little surprised, and a little put off by his tone. "I'm not stupid or naïve, Red. This time, here, safe and quiet, it's been… it's been a lovely little interlude from reality, I know that. I know I'm being hunted, on two fronts, now. But, together…"

"That's just it," he interrupts, clenching and unclenching his fists in uncharacteristic agitation. "You need to think carefully about how you want to… behave, outside. It's likely better, safer, if we remain… business partners, at least in…"

"You… you have _got_ to be kidding me," she says in angry disbelief, striding across the room to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips. "Were you not the one, just _last night_ , asking for more time, time to be together?"

"I thought we'd have time," he says, misery in his voice, crawling across his face and body. "I honestly didn't expect Dembe to succeed so soon. I expected more from Ressler," he admits. "I can't imagine why."

" _Hoped_ for better, maybe I'd buy," she snaps. "You have nothing but disdain for his abilities as an agent. As for _us_ ," she continues, angrier and angrier, "I don't see what difference it makes where we are. Unless you're worried Dembe will disapprove."

"Now you _are_ being naïve," he retorts, glaring, flexing his fingers. "If we're… together, openly, it's not just the Cabal and the FBI you'd have after you. It's every enemy I've ever made."

"Oh, that's right," she seethes, bitterly sarcastic. "I'd almost forgotten how much you hate vulnerabilities. And you expect me to believe that you have feelings for me? That you've had them, for ages? I'm only just discovering you, us, and _I_ think it's worth fighting for, but if you…"

"Oh, shut up," he says, standing in a rush, his broad body crowding her, his hands slamming into the wall on either side of her head. "Don't be so willfully obtuse, you infuriating creature! You should know by now _exactly_ how far I'd go for you, Lizzie." He's roaring, now, hoarse with rage, control snapped, tendons popping in his neck and arms. His charismatic presence has always made him seem larger than he is, but now, as he looms over her, red-faced and furious… she'd be frightened if she weren't so pissed off. "It's _you_ I worry about, always, _always_. You're already a target, to be selfish enough to dangle you out in the world like bait…"

The sound her hand makes as it drives into his cheek is truly hideous. It hangs in the air between them like a specter.

"Don't. You. Dare." She bites out the words, ice to his fire. "Don't you _dare_ think that you have the right to make that decision for me, for us. If _you_ don't want _me_ , if you…"

"Are you really that blind?" he interrupts her again, dropping back into the chair, leaving her sagging against the wall. Exhaustion suddenly paints every inch of him, his anger and tension fled as if it had never been. He looks away from her, past her, out the door as if he wishes he could escape.

"I'm in love with you." His words drop into the air like stones.

She stands there in front of him, her hand throbbing, throat sore, heartsick; she looks at the reddened shape on the side of his face with regret, and thinks that for all his years of acquired knowledge; for all his innate, canny brilliance; for all his sharp insight into human nature, he can be just as stupid as the next idiot.

She takes a breath; sighs. She straddles his lap easily and takes his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her — but gently, this time.

"You're an idiot," she says calmly. "Do you think this is just a lark for me? A pleasant way to pass the time while we've been stuck down here?"

"Lizzie," he starts.

"Now it's your turn to shut up," she says coolly. "I've said it before, but I know it didn't take, so let's try it again. _I care about you_. You bulled your way into my life and made yourself a part of it. You can't undo that, no matter how much you might want to, no matter how hard you try. I might be new in this aspect of our relationship, but not in all of it — I don't know if I'm _in_ love with you or not, or if we have a future together in that way. But you're one of mine, now, regardless. I do love you, Red — I've killed for you. Or have you forgotten Yaabari?" Her voice is getting higher and faster; she's angry all over again.

His face and body are perfectly still, his features frozen behind her hands. He couldn't speak if his life depended on it.

"Do you _really_ want to know how we ended up here, Red? Why I… what was it you said? Why I threw my whole life away?"

He manages a slight nod, transfixed by her animated rage, by the blazing crystal of her eyes.

"Connolly threatened your life, Red, _that's_ what happened. Oh, he had nasty things in store for all of us, everyone I had left to care about even a little — and I didn't flinch. Then he said, like he was ordering a fucking drink in a bar, that he would see you dead, and I didn't hesitate to shoot him in the heart."

"Lizzie," he breathes, shocked out of his anger and frustration, bereft and wanting, wanting something he couldn't name.

" _That's_ what I'm willing to do for you," she cut through him without even blinking, tears now running down her face unheeded, unnoticed. "For us — and that was before… _us_. I'm not afraid to face the world with you, Red — it will be infinitely better than facing it alone. So I guess it's up to you, like it always is. Do you want me, or don't you?"

And as she waited for him to speak, to recover himself, she wondered where all these words had come from, inside her. Where all her words and feelings and passion had been hiding since the death of her fake life — where _Liz_ had been hiding for over a year now. _Doesn't matter, really_ , she thinks, but it's good to feel strong again.

He opens his mouth; shuts it again.

He blinks, thoughtfully; tilts his head to examine her face.

His eyes are suspiciously shiny, but she doesn't say anything, doesn't move. He _has_ to break first, or she'll lose, maybe everything.

Then he smiles, and she nearly sobs in relief. It's a smile she has never seen on him before, his face completely clear of any emotion but a pure gladness that pierces her heart.

He reaches up for her hands, then moves in and kisses her, soft and full.

This time, for the first time, it doesn't burn.

It doesn't spark like wildfire that threatens to consume; she's not stricken or blinded or lost.

Instead, it warms, full of a quiet heat that promises more — a kindling rather than a flash.

It feels, she thinks, full of wonder, like he is giving her a piece of himself to keep safe.

It feels, she thinks, like a slow fall, like sinking, like changing into something else, someone else.

Someone _better_ — still herself, still Liz, but more so, maybe than ever before — different, stronger, braver. Everything is clear and bright, all colours and shapes, and her senses have gone sharp like the blade of a knife.

He breaks away, breathing faster; his eyes glint green as grass.

"You might not be sure, sweetheart," he says, his voice flowing rich and wrapping around her like a blanket. "But I am. You're right. I'm an idiot. To think, having had a taste of what could be between us, that I could walk away from you, from us — no one has ever been so foolish.

"I love you, Elizabeth, with everything I am. And I can wait with you, live with you, work with you, until you feel it, too."

"Together, then," she says, her heart full, lips quivering, just a little.

"Together," and when _he_ says it, it's a vow, an oath. "And against the two of us together, love, they haven't got a chance."

* * *

 _A/N: And that's all she wrote, folks. This last chapter was an absolute BEAR, I have to say. Thank you so very much for reading, and for the many kind words and all of your encouragement. Specific thanks to Michelle-My-Belle for helping me refine things, more than once. And for FilmsAreFriends, who started this off with an intriguing idea, I hope you're happy with how it all turned out. I leave y'all with a last thought of The Jeans — I know I will remember them fondly;)_


End file.
